


Need

by SomeRainMustFall



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, We were robbed of fatherly Gil coming to his rescue, rOBBED I TELL YOU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 06:24:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall
Summary: Free Real Estate guy: *waves u closer*It's more hurt Malcolm, babes(spoilers for 1x08, just a short whumpy bridge between Malcolm being in the tunnel and being back at the precinct, because that's the Good Shit.)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 381





	Need

**Author's Note:**

> Is it too much to ask to ACTUALLY SEE Gil helping a very injured Malcolm...give me what I desire, writers...quench my whump thirst...

He can’t tell where the awful crunching sound had come from, the turnstile’s gears or _him_, but Malcolm falls to the ground knowing there’s no chance he can get up in time to follow Paul out. He might not be able to get up at _all_, he realizes, as renewed agony washes over him the second he takes a ragged breath. 

The echoing of Paul’s footsteps fades into the distance, and Malcolm can no longer hear anything but the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, of his desperate wheezes for air. He collapses as his arms can no longer hold him up, cries out and struggles to roll onto his back. 

Phone…he needs his phone. He needs to call Gil, needs to _get up._

The pain is far too much. He can’t even reach into his pocket. He _can’t_. He can only lay there, gasping, each breath just as painful if not _more_ so than the last until everything is suddenly very, very silent.

He opens his eyes, and can breathe a little easier. He blinks hard, his senses slowly returning, and slides his hand into his pocket to find it empty. He reaches for the other, grimacing, and finds the phone Paul had given him, but not his own.

_Shit._

He braces himself, and then forces himself to his hands and knees. His stomach lurches, and his chest heaves, and his vision darkens at the edges.

No. Stay awake. He has to _stay awake. _

His hoarse wail is louder than it should be, vibrating off the walls of the tunnel as he stands, staggering, grabbing out to the metal gate for support. His phone lays on the other side, and he pushes through, carefully getting down to his knees to pick it up. It hurts, but he doesn’t think he could bend over if he tried. 

It’s bad. It’s _bad. _He wipes under his throbbing nose, but the blood has long since dried. His hand, his shoulders, his neck, muscles wrenched out of place and back, all protest as he grabs onto the bars. He isn’t sure if any ribs are broken, but they’re bruised to the point he cannot touch them, maybe fractured, and he almost can’t get back up. 

When he does, he sways, the pain clouding his consciousness again, and has to stay still for a moment until he can see again, finally stumbling his way out onto the street.

He considers for a moment if it would hurt less to sit, and then his body decides for him as his legs give out, sending him to the concrete. He moans, sitting himself up against the wall, and then lifts his phone up, checks for service, and dials Gil.

“I need help,” he croaks. 

Gil is there within minutes beside him, helping him stand, supporting him all the way to the ambulance. 

“I _swear_, kid,” Gil scolds, shaking his head, and Malcolm weakly grunts in response as they lay him down on the stretcher. 

The tone Gil always uses with him when he’s injured satisfies a need he doesn’t like having; for affection, for love, for the father he wanted but didn’t receive.

Gil cups the back of his head, maybe trying to bring him back, to open his eyes again, and he briefly fawns over the attention. 

He thinks he could have turned out differently if _Gil_ had been his father.

He thinks he could have turned out happy.

Maybe, anyways. Maybe he could have been happy. It’s such a foreign idea that it’s almost, almost laughable.

But it hurts more than he’ll ever let himself admit that he’ll never really know. 


End file.
